September 11th - Tell all the stories
Reposted from bearsir's LJ
Hey, listen - thanks, but we don't need another moment of silence. We do that more than well enough already. We bottle it up, we try to gut it out, we whisper the C word and we speak in hushed tones about the dead. We get overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, the sheer horror, and we let it silence us. We erase every disagreement, magnify every peak or valley, and we hold it close, very close. Too close.
Listen, for my money? Skip the moment of silence. Give me a moment of storytelling instead, or five minutes, or a whole day. Turn to your neighbor, wherever you are, and tell them what you remember about whoever you lost. Tell about Jeremy's habit of refilling his coffee mug all day, all week, without washing it, and how he insisted that the heat of the coffee killed any possible bacteria. Tell about how Nicky used to stand up on her bike pedals and blow kisses to the trafic when it was gridlock or nearly and she was pedaling home from work. How Aunt Petunia smelled like camphor and couldn't cook worth a shit, how Javier wouldn't leave the house without blessing it if his daughter was inside, how you were almost ready to bury the hatchet with Gillian about what she said last spring and you wish you had been ready a little sooner.
Tell all the stories. Fill the air with them, instead of bells. Say all the names nine times. Carry them forward with you, on your sleeve instead of in your pocket. They no longer need to be protected; in fact, they'll protect you if you let them. If you tell their stories.
©2006 S. Bear Bergman
What are your stories?
What stories do you have of people who were lost, or whose lives were irrevocably changed, that day?
Do you remember where you were when you heard? What you did next?
How did your life change? Or didn't it?
Hey, listen - thanks, but we don't need another moment of silence. We do that more than well enough already. We bottle it up, we try to gut it out, we whisper the C word and we speak in hushed tones about the dead. We get overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, the sheer horror, and we let it silence us. We erase every disagreement, magnify every peak or valley, and we hold it close, very close. Too close.
Listen, for my money? Skip the moment of silence. Give me a moment of storytelling instead, or five minutes, or a whole day. Turn to your neighbor, wherever you are, and tell them what you remember about whoever you lost. Tell about Jeremy's habit of refilling his coffee mug all day, all week, without washing it, and how he insisted that the heat of the coffee killed any possible bacteria. Tell about how Nicky used to stand up on her bike pedals and blow kisses to the trafic when it was gridlock or nearly and she was pedaling home from work. How Aunt Petunia smelled like camphor and couldn't cook worth a shit, how Javier wouldn't leave the house without blessing it if his daughter was inside, how you were almost ready to bury the hatchet with Gillian about what she said last spring and you wish you had been ready a little sooner.
Tell all the stories. Fill the air with them, instead of bells. Say all the names nine times. Carry them forward with you, on your sleeve instead of in your pocket. They no longer need to be protected; in fact, they'll protect you if you let them. If you tell their stories.
©2006 S. Bear Bergman
What are your stories?
What stories do you have of people who were lost, or whose lives were irrevocably changed, that day?
Do you remember where you were when you heard? What you did next?
How did your life change? Or didn't it?